


The Problem With Paisley

by Apothecary



Category: Archer (Cartoon)
Genre: Drinking, F/M, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:44:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apothecary/pseuds/Apothecary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You know, this would be romantic if I were somewhere else, and you were someone else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Problem With Paisley

He looks around the bar as if there’s anything else to look at. He follows the light as if it hasn’t all been drawn tightly towards the closest star. He pretends there’s something else on his mind, he pretends that there ever is. He pretends that the girls who just walked in are more interesting. He’s always pretending, and for the sake of the evening, he’ll pretend that he isn’t sick of it. One notices his stare and gives him a little wave. He smiles back, and covers it with the glass in his hand. The wooden chair creaks when he leans back into it and he can't get comfortable in it. No one here looks comfortable. Men with long beards and dark skin lean together closely, murmuring to each other in a foreign tongue. A younger man in Western dress is eyeing the giggling girls, too. 

“Remember when you looked like that?” Sterling asks, pointing at the young, clearly American girls meander into a bar they’re unfamiliar with, on holiday. He starts to wonder how clear it is to anyone else. A prickle of pride touches his spine and he’s avenged the moment of depth. He rewards the success with another drink.

“Shut up,” she snaps, brushing her hair back. Her dress is slinky, silky, and golden. It’s hard to imagine that there is light anywhere else for the way it shines. He sips his drink, and while it’s near his lips he sips again. He rises to get another and promises himself that he'll slow down. She mutters something, but he doesn’t care, at least, he tells himself that. The bar tender fills another glass, watching the room with old eyes. Sterling watches the reflections of the room from the distorted mirrors of bottles. The young man in the cheap suit has sat himself down with the girls. Sterling sneers and gestures for a third shot in his double. The bar tender raises his brow but complies. Coins on the counter and he pours another. 

“It is your first time in Tangier?” Sterling eyes the bartender for a moment, scrambling the syllables around in his head before he can shake the heavy accent off of them. 

“No,” he says, something in the bottom of his glass is infinitely more interesting than the bartender’s sun worn face. “We’re here on business,” the bar tender nods in the way of service men, the old and familiar nod of a man who is frequently lied to, and all too frequently told the truth. The spy and the bar tender exchange a glance. They aren’t terribly different, not really. They’ve learned, one through rigorous training and the other through field research, how to read the lines on a face as well as the ones on a page, they’ve got steel trap memories and locks on the door. Sterling glances at the man’s hands, a passing drop of his gaze before turning back towards his table. In the folds of a dingy bar clothe was a simple golden band. That’s dangerous, he thinks, sitting down. What if you get hurt? Why carve a place for yourself in someone’s life and suddenly, at any moment, leave it vacant? 

She murmurs so quietly it blended in with the room like a figure on the wood paneled walls. There's a lipstick mark on her wine glass and for a second he forgets himself. He digs at his shirt collar. Suddenly his tie is too tight. Scotch bites his tongue and he swallows more than he intended. 

“What? Your voice turned into your hands there,” Sterling leans in on an elbow. “By that I mean manly,” her lips pulled into a snarl and despite himself, despite the giggle in his throat, he wanted to lean further. Some interior wall flashes up like a beacon warning, and he raises his glass to where her lips should be.

“Over there,” she hisses, eyes narrowed, scowl still firmly affixed. One long finger is pointed overtop her own glass and his eyes follow. He whom Sterling can only assume is the dealer they're waiting for is seated at a table alone. His shirt is intricate with golden thread working a paisley pattern over the dark burgundy fabric. 

“Jesus, I hate paisley, why is it always paisley? People think it helps you blend in but honestly? It’s like blending into a living room dressed as the couch, am I right?” He snorts through his nose but she doesn't acknowledge him. She brushes off her dress and checks the contents of her handbag. Lipstick clinks against metal and Archer can't help but check his own gun. It's a habit, an instinct. She gestures to follow her and he sets an empty glass on their table. Her heels click on the tile floor and her hips start to sway. He tells himself his vision is swimming. Her arm wraps around his and her shoulder collides with his chest. 

"Goddamnit-" he pushes her into a chair at the table of their contact. She lands in a giggling heap. The group of young women fix her with catty glares. The dealer raises a thick eyebrow. "Henry Kader," he takes the seat closest to Lana and pulls her chair closer to his. She slumps up against the table and smiles at the other man. She gives a finger wave and laughs out a greeting. The man in the paisley shirt smiles wolfishly. 

"You have good taste," he says slowly. He has three gold teeth. "I haven't seen this one around before." 

"Are you insinuating," the man stiffens and the smile falls from his face. Lana doesn't stop smiling at him. "That I'm a whore?" Only a trained ear would have heard her cock the pistol trained on the man's knee.

"Only in the bedroom, right honey?" Sterling laughs too loudly and the other man has no choice but to smile and laugh under the collected weight of the room's stares. 

"What do you want?" the man hisses, eyes skittering around the room, desperate for an exit. Sterling draws a photograph from his pocket. 

"Seen this man?" he slides the image across the table. 

"No."

"Are you sure?" Lana asks, raising the point of her gun from his knee to his inner thigh. She leans down harder and he flinches. Panic flickeres across his dark eyes. 

"Yes." Sterling shrugs and takes the picture back. He opens the flap of his suit jacket to reveal the gun shoved into his belt and repockets the picture. 

"Then you wont pass up the opportunity to meet him," His steel eyes flash like quick-draw daggers. "We're having a little get together. All the assholes in Tangier we could find in the phone book." Lana rolls her eyes but says nothing. Archer rises and extends his hand. "Walk or she screams."

 

"You know," she says, eyes never leaving her wine glass. "If it weren't for the human traffickers tied up in the bathroom this would be kind of nice." Her legs are drawn up next to her on the bed. Light falls on her from the candles on the bedside table. Her hair is tussled and the golden dress has been abandoned on the floor. She's scrubbed most of the blood off her hands. 

"You can't keep the robe," Sterling replies from the window, eyes trained on the building across the street.

"You brought your own!" He shrugs.

"That one might be nicer."

"It isn't," she hisses. 

"I don't know that."

"Then give me yours," she says, rising from the bed and reaching for his bag on the floor. Binoculars hit her hand, spilling wine on the floor. Lana lets out a yelp and a curse. 

"What the shit did you do that for?" She massages her hand and glares at the back of her partner's head. 

"I don't want your huge ass stretching out my robe." She mutters a string of curses and blows out the candles. "Goodnight?" Sterling half turns street light highlights her outline under the white linen sheet. Lana doesn't reply. 

 

The clock reads 2:03. Lana is still asleep, twisted in the sheets in a foreign bed. I should be, too, Sterling thinks. He remains at the window. He's got another drink in his hand and he hasn't noticed that the rise and fall of his hand has started to match the rise and fall of her chest. Lana's gun belt is tossed over a chair, but his is still around his waist. The cold handle is starting to cramp his spine, but it's the same painful comfort a pulled muscle might provide. 

It's her turn to guard the window, but Archer lets her sleep another hour, and pours himself another drink.


End file.
